


Can I Help You?

by Truthiest



Category: Fake News RPF, The Late Show with Stephen Colbert (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Wifeless AU, gender neutral reader, the slowest build ever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-23 18:42:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11408292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Truthiest/pseuds/Truthiest
Summary: You're about to start your dream job: writer for The Late Show with Stephen Colbert.





	1. Day 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is obviously a work of fiction and in no way based on any real events. (Also I took creative liberties with how the backstage and offices are arranged so sorry)

Your third alarm rings. You blink a few times and then look over at your clock. It's 6:30 AM. Shit. You promised yourself you'd be there early. You've got about twenty minutes to get on the train if you want to be there by 7:15. The last thing you want to do is be anywhere close to late. You need to make sure your new colleagues (and, you think with an insuppressible grin, your new boss) know how honored you are to be there. 

You freshen up quickly and put on the outfit you laid out last night. You have tried to strike a balance between formality, comfort, and unconcernedness. You're a little nervous because there is no written dress code, so you have no idea what the norm is. Hopefully this outfit, solidly in the middle of the spectrum of acceptability, doesn't offend anyone. You reflect as you don your winter jacket that these people are probably much harder to offend than that.

You're on the subway by 6:45, scarfing down a hastily assembled peanut butter bagel for breakfast. You watch apprehensively you approach your stop. Your nerves increase exponentially with each station, and soon you regret eating any breakfast because you're sure you're about to throw up. 

You reach the Ed Sullivan Theater a good 25 minutes before you've been told you're supposed to arrive. You think to yourself that this is probably too early, and no one is here yet. Why would they be? This a job, not their entire lives. Your fears are confirmed when you reach the front doors of the theater to find them locked. You try each one, despairing more with each tug. Your hands start to numb. This was stupid. Of course you wanted to be early, but to be the first one? You were overeager, and now the people you're going to be spending three quarters of every day with will think you're weird.

You're just trying the last door with little real hope for a different result when you hear a voice behind you: "Can I help you?"

You jump, whipping around. You gasp. Your heart is suddenly beating what feels like 50 times as fast as it should. Stephen Colbert is standing behind you with a polite grin on his face. He is wearing a long, grey trench coat, but you can see beneath it a thick blue sweater over a white collared shirt and black slacks. Contrary to what you have always been told about looking taller on camera, he seems to tower over you now. Larger than life.

He continues to smile kindly. He's probably used to this reaction, you think as you stumble over your words.

"Ummm... hi!" You manage to get out the simple greeting with enough awkwardness to earn a chuckle from him. "I'm your new writer." You stammer your name.

He seems to be glowing in the early morning January sunlight as he smiles wider in recognition. "Great! Well, I'm Stephen, though judging by your thirty second stroke, you already knew that." He laughs and takes your cold, numbed hand into his soft, warm one to shake it.

"Thank you so much for hiring me," you say breathlessly.

"No, thank YOU for applying. Your submission packet was truly impressive. In fact, we're doing another installment of Midnight Confessions tonight, and I was hoping that we could use the lampshade one to lead off the segment."

"Really?!" He nods. You feel much warmer at the thought of Stephen reading through the packet and laughing at your jokes.

You suddenly realize that you are still holding his hand. His grip has loosened, and you pull away quickly, muttering an embarrassed "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it," he says with a somehow knowing air. Are you that obvious? "By the way, we usually go in through the back door." He motions for you to follow him, and you walk alongside him as he heads down the street, mentally kicking yourself. Of course there's a back door. Why didn't you think of that?

"Do you always arrive this early?" You ask apprehensively. You wonder if you might have misread the email and arrived late despite all of your precautions.

"Yup! I like to be here to greet as many of my staff as possible as they come in." He grins. "Can I get used to welcoming you first?"

You blush. "What can I say? I- I like an early start." It occurs to you that you might have subconsciously hoped for a situation just like this, but you don't follow that train of thought too far.

You take a surreptitious glance at him. Stephen's black hair, already neatly arranged, definitely has some streaks of grey, and you recall his fervently denial of dyeing it. You make a mental note to keep an eye on that to learn the truth. He swings his arms to an almost comical degree, but it somehow suits him. He doesn't look silly, but rather dignified.

You reach the back door, and he pulls it open for you. "What a gentleman," you hear yourself say, feeling your face get hotter. But he plays along, bowing deeply.

You enter into a hallway with white walls and little furnishing besides a coat rack opposite a small wooden bench. Stephen sits down here after hanging up his coat, pulling a book out of the pocket. You read the title: C.S. Lewis's _The Screwtape Letters_. "Haven't you read that already?" You ask, thinking back to an interview in which he recommended it.

"I have," he admits, "but it's good to reaffirm the lessons it teaches. And, evidently, to see whether or not my writers are sufficiently aware of my reading habits." He smirks. You give a weak laugh, painfully aware of the excessive amount of knowledge you have of Stephen.

"Well, I think I'm going to go find the writers' room and see if anyone is there," you say quickly, starting down the hall. You recognize where you are now; you were given a brief tour when you were interviewed. The doors here lead into guest dressing rooms. The signs on these doors currently read "Rachel Bloom," "Lupita Nyong'o," and "Yellowcard." You're headed for the stairs, remembering that the writers' room is one floor below. You've almost reached them when you realize that you're still wearing your jacket. You turn around and walk back down the long hallway sheepishly.

Stephen looks up as you approach and shrug off your jacket. He clearly notices your red face, because he jokes, "Hey, not the worst walk of shame you could be doing this early in the morning." You giggle and agree. As you make your way briskly down the hall, you can't seem to stop smiling.

You finally make it to the writers' room to find two people already there. Jen Spyra, who interviewed you, meets your entrance with a warm smile. The other person is Brian Stack, who you recognize from his various appearances as characters on The Late Show. You introduce yourself and shake his hand. Both barely seem to notice your earliness, and both, you see with a wave of relief, are dressed only slightly more causally than you, Jen in a blouse and jeans and Brian wearing a flannel over a Star Wars T-shirt. You finally begin to relax. You settle into a seat in the middle of the oblong wooden table that dominates the room.

You pull your laptop out of your messenger bag and busy yourself by beginning research for the monologue. As the other writers begin to slowly file in, you introduce yourself to each one. You grow more and more comfortable as each gives a genuinely enthusiastic greeting. You tense up again when Paul Dinello enters the room. You know all of the work he has done with Stephen, and you admire his comedic genius. He is clearly much more soft-spoken than the host, but he does not mince his words to compliment your writing.

"My favorite joke was your confession about the lampshade," he says. 

"That's funny, Stephen said the same thing!" You say excitedly.

"You've talked to him already?" Jen asks, surprised.

"Yeah, he showed me the back door," you say, suddenly self-conscious. Everybody seems to be listening to you.

This appears not to be new information to Paul. "Stephen mentioned that to me," he says, "and he said he's really looking forward to working with you."

Stephen enters soon after. "Before we start, I just wanted to make sure that everybody had a chance to meet our newest writer," he says. He has you stand and introduces you. He puts his hand on your back, and you gasp inaudibly. When he says your name, you feel as if you might melt of happiness. It's finally sinking in that you get to work here every day. You can't wait to be in the thick of things.

Stephen rolls out a whiteboard and begins taking suggestions for Midnight Confessions. First, he writes your joke at the top of the board. You watch with pride.

You try to let the other writers do most of the talking, not wanting to seem too full of yourself on the first day. They seem to have this segment well in hand anyway. Soon, however, Stephen exclaims in mock exasperation, "Come on, folks, when do I get to drink?"

You raise your hand tentatively. Stephen says your name with enthusiasm.

"Okay, umm... 'Forgive me audience; I like to name my first glass of wine after the Godzilla film: It's pretty good, but it inspires too many sequels.’”

Everybody laughs, but the only person you hear is Stephen, who snorts. "We can work with that," he pronounces, beaming at you. You smile back, ecstatic.

Next come pitches for the cold open. You have come armed with a few, but none that you feel very confident in. Stephen encourages you to try them anyway: “You have don’t know what could resonate.” You offer your idea of NASA trying to lure Donald Trump into a one-way space shuttle in response to his recent tweet blaming the organization for a lack of photos showing the true size of his inauguration crowd. There are snickers, but the response is not the uproarious laughter it was for your previous ideas. That’s okay, you think, not every idea is going to be a winner. Even though you know this, you cannot help but feel the sting of rejection. Ultimately, the writers vote for a cold open in which Sean Spicer goes further and further out of his away to avoid press briefings.

The meeting concludes, and the writers scatter to do some research before the monologue pitches later. As you try to leave the room to find a place to work, Stephen stops you. He asks softly, “Are you alright?”

You nod. “I know that not every joke is show-quality. That’s what we have these pitch meetings for.”

His deep brown eyes meet yours for a moment, and it feels as if he is cataloguing every thought you’ve ever had. “Good. I know the first few joke rejections can sting, but you’ll get used to it. It’s just part of the job, and it’s not personal at all.” He winks. “I know you’ll have plenty to say when we get to the monologue. Don’t let this stop you.”

You blush. “Thanks.”

“And don’t think I’m singling you out. I’ve done this for every writer on their first day. I know that this is intimidating. You’re doing great.”

You smile gratefully. A thought occurs to you. “Are we allowed to sit in the audience to do our research?”

“Go for it,” he says. “Sitting in that theater is where I’ve had some of my best ideas.”

You make your way to a seat in the farthest corner of the second floor seating, hoping to avoid as much human interaction as possible. You need some time to decompress. You scroll through articles halfheartedly, thinking all the while of Stephen talking to you, Stephen appreciating your writing, Stephen making sure you were okay. Eventually, your reverie is broken when you realize that if you don’t come up with some jokes soon, you’ll have nothing for the monologue pitch meeting. You go into research mode in earnest, and come up with some jokes that you are actually proud of. You look forward to testing them.

When the meeting comes around, you walk in with new confidence. You know that Stephen does not misplace his faith, and he really believes in you. You remember this each time your confidence wavers. Your newly found boldness earns you several jokes in the monologue and a pleased look from Stephen.

The writers break for lunch. You’re not sure why, but you never imagined Stephen eating with everybody else. You suppose you always imagined he had better things to do, more important people to talk to. But he eats lunch with all the writers, who have decided to order sandwiches today.

You strike up a conversation with Jen about her writing process and how it compares to yours. You have noticed that she has an aptitude for describing news stories in such a way that they set up perfectly for a joke, and you ask how she manages to do this. 

“It’s really a matter of trying it every single way until you come up with something,” she replies humbly. “Just trial and error.”

“It helps a lot to say it out loud in different ways,” Stephen chimes in from a few seats away, almost making you choke on your food.

Suddenly, you are engaged in conversation with two comedy writing experts about their processes. You are amazed that they consider you even close to being a peer. Their seeming telepathy is evidence of how long they have worked together; they finish each other’s thoughts effortlessly, and sometimes they both trail off as they each reaches the same conclusion nonverbally. You are envious of their synchrony of thought. You long to be that connected to this group and to Stephen.

After lunch, you and the other writers head to the rewrite room while Stephen gets ready for the taping. This involves some polishing of the segments, but for the most part it means accounting in the monologue for the news that has taken place since the first meeting. Luckily, nothing enormous has changed in the intervening two hours, but you are told that it is not uncommon to have to rewrite nearly the entire monologue due to a developing story.

Stephen comes in briefly towards the end of the meeting to read the new monologue before rehearsal. He is wearing one of his newer suits, a bluish-grey, paired with a black tie. This is your first time seeing him dressed-up in real life, and you are not at all disappointed. He is inexpressibly handsome, with not a hair out of place and a positively ethereal smile on his face as he compliments the staff on amendments to the script. “Let’s get this thing onstage,” he says determinedly, and you follow your colleagues into the front row of the theater to watch Stephen finally give voice to your writing.

The rehearsal is far more entertaining than you imagined it would be. Stephen is bringing new material to the stage for the first time, and it shows as he breaks down in giggles every few minutes. He is clearly in his element. This is a master of his craft, fully present in the moment. You are nervous to hear your first joke spoken aloud, but Stephen clearly relishes the Jeff Sessions impression that you have given him. He adds a wiggle of the ears that punctuates the bit perfectly, and you feel as if you could float away with glee.

You love watching him work, trying something new and talking out a joke with the writers. It is obvious how much he values the voices of the people around him; he knows that creating a show is a team sport. The genuine passion he has for his performance is evident with every word he speaks. He also takes feedback exceedingly well. Stephen seems to have very little ego, or at least none that he lets get in the way of making the best show possible.

Soon ( _too soon_ , you think) it is time for the audience to come in for the taping. The writers rush to the rewrite room once more to ensure that no late-breaking news is left out of tonight’s episode. You seem to be in the clear for the most part, but the writers tweak the monologue somewhat anyway. Stephen sprints in after answering audience questions to get a quick look at the final draft of the show. You watch his eyes move impossibly fast across the pages. He gives a wordless nod of approval, and darts back out of the room to prepare to go onstage. One writer follows him to give the rewrites to the teleprompter operator, and the rest start talking amongst themselves.

“You can stay here to watch the show if you want,” says Jen, pointing to the monitor mounted on the wall at the other end of the room, “but a few of us always go upstairs to the office to get an early start on tomorrow’s show.”

You suddenly realize that you haven’t even laid eyes on your desk in the office yet. Whoops. You suppose that it would be good form to show your strong work ethic on the first day, but you cannot resist the temptation to watch Stephen deliver your jokes to a cheering crowd. Jen seems to understand, and she leaves you and about half of the writing staff to see the fruits of your labor.

Stephen’s Jeff Sessions impression is even better the second time around, and it is further sweetened by the audience’s raucous laughter and applause. The struggle not to break is evident on his face, and you love knowing that you are the reason for it. He looks into the camera, and you see his mouth twitch playfully again as the audience’s cheers die down. You feel yourself smiling idiotically. You could get used to this.

The lampshade joke during Midnight Confessions is delivered with precise timing, garnering a huge laugh. You swear you see Stephen glance at the camera for a moment with satisfaction glimmering in his eye. You are even more certain of this when he takes a sip of his wine after your Godzilla joke. _God_ , you think, _Stephen Colbert likes my writing_. You savor this sweet thought, still not quite sure this is real life. This whole day has felt like a dream. Working to make this incredible man look good onstage is an honor, and you can’t believe your luck to be able to do it every day.

At the end of the show, Stephen comes backstage to congratulate the writers on a job well done. This seems to be a fairly commonplace occurrence, as most of them are already halfway out the door by the time he has finished the sentiment. You stand to go, but he is blocking your way out (intentionally? You’re not sure). The room empties.

“I want to thank you again for joining the staff,” Stephen says earnestly. “You’ve already made such great contributions on your first day, and I look forward to seeing what you bring tomorrow.”

“Thank you again for hiring me. I won’t let you down!” You grab your bag just as Stephen reaches for a handshake. You quickly set down your things and grab his hand, blushing hard. He grins.

You exit the room and begin speed walking towards the exit, asking yourself furiously how you could possibly be more awkward. You quickly retract that question, worrying that you might top yourself.

By the time you get on the train home, you are back to smiling foolishly. How can you not be? Your job is to go into work every day and write jokes that make Stephen Colbert laugh. You can’t imagine anything better. And he seems to have taken a real interest in you. You try to modulate your excitement about this, reminding yourself that he might well be like that for every new writer. You can’t help it, though; Stephen has a way of effortlessly making people feel special, and you are swept up by his kindness.

At home, you eat a slice of cold pizza for dinner. You sit down with your laptop and try to begin research for a desk piece, but you soon give up. You’re still abuzz with energy from your first day.

You set your alarm again and settle into bed. You drift off thinking of all the times Stephen smiled at you today.


	2. Coffee and Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 at The Late Show. One of these days you'll stop being so damn awkward.

You wake up to your first alarm this morning. You sit up immediately and check your clock, which tells you that it is 5:45. A dopey grin slowly spreads across your face. It’s Tuesday. You have work again today. Can you really call it work? You’re getting paid to write funny things for Stephen Colbert to make even funnier.

Either way, you have no need to rush this time. You take more time this morning picking out an outfit that matches the attire of your peers. Lacking much inspiration to make anything more extravagant, you eat buttered toast for breakfast.

Even with a more sluggish pace, you find yourself ready to leave at 6:30, a bit earlier than yesterday. You decide to start heading over now anyway.

On the subway, you no longer grow nervous; rather, as the ride progresses, you grow more elated the closer you get to the place where you get to see Stephen. You can’t help but wonder if he is as excited to see you again as you are to see him. Probably not. But it can’t hurt to hope.

You arrive at the deserted theater and check your watch. Still running fifteen minutes ahead of yesterday. You are disappointed not to have met Stephen again. Perhaps if you wait around, he might show up soon? You reject that idea almost immediately. You definitely don’t need Stephen to find you just waiting for him. He probably thinks you’re odd enough already.

It occurs to you that going to get coffee could eat up about 15 minutes, and you decide to head to the Starbucks down the street. If Stephen isn’t there when you come back, then it clearly wasn’t meant to be.

On your way, you muse idly over what Stephen might do when he’s not at work. After all, he is unmarried and, as far as you can tell, not dating either. You know that he is an avid reader, and a science fiction and fantasy buff in particular. Perhaps he just reads a book a night. You wouldn’t put it past him. You wonder if he watches The Late Show when it comes on at 11:35. This conjures a laughable image of Stephen trying to recreate his monologue with the television, sometimes bantering with an invisible Jon Batiste. You suppose that maybe he does watch the show, if only from the perspective of a performer trying to improve his craft.

You get to the Starbucks and check your watch. You have about seven minutes to get back to the theater at the time you met Stephen yesterday. You order your coffee and take up a brisk pace on your return.

To your delight, Stephen rounds the corner coming towards you just as you reach the theater. Today, he wears his grey trench coat over a purple checked collared shirt tucked into a pair of jeans. You try to alter your speed, hoping to seem causal and not as though you made an effort to time this just right. You check you watch again. It is 7:25, the same time as he arrived yesterday. Clearly, he is a punctual person. You file that fact away, hoping it will one day prove useful.

“Hi,” he says warmly as you turn around to walk with him in the direction of the back door. He notices the coffee in your hand. “What do you have there?”

“An Americano,” you reply as nonchalantly as possible.

“Ah.” He grins, a suddenly dreamy look in his brown eyes.

“Does that mean something to you?”

“Oh, nothing anymore,” he replies with a nostalgic sigh. “It’s just that I used to have one of those every morning as part of my character.”

You are awed by this information. You were already impressed by his ability to stay in character through everything on his show and in public appearances, but that he took such minutia as his character’s coffee order into account is incredible. Yet another testament to his talent as a performer.

Following a sudden idea, you ask, “And… what do you usually get now?” 

The way he smiles always seems to insinuate that he knows exactly what you’re thinking. How does he do that? “I like hazelnut coffee with a good amount of cream and sugar.”

You nod, hoping your intentions weren't too obvious. You try to steer the conversation away from the subject. “By the way, I was wondering… Do you ever watch yourself on the show?”

He chuckles. “Sometimes. Usually, experiencing it once is enough for me, but if I want to see how well a joke actually landed or feel like I could have done something a bit better, I’ll watch that part of the show.”

“I don’t think I could ever watch myself,” you confess. “I would never be able to take myself seriously.”

“It certainly takes discipline, but it’s a good skill to learn,” Stephen says as you reach the back door of the theater.

He holds the door and bows again as you enter, making your face burn at the thought that he actually remembered that stupid comment. Stephen pulls out _The Screwtape Letters_ and sits again on the bench. You take off your jacket and hang it on the rack. At least you’ve remembered that today.

Brian and Jen are once again the only two in the writers’ room when you enter. They seem more surprised this morning to see you so early.

"Looks like we've got a genuine early riser!" Brian exclaims.

"No one usually comes this early after their first day enthusiasm dies down," Jen says in reply to your puzzled expression.

"The early Late Show writer gets the punchline," you joke. An awkward pause as both smile politely. "Guess I need to start getting up earlier." Both snicker at this.

Feeling better, you sit down in the same seat as yesterday and pull out your laptop. Now you regret not starting a desk piece last night; there will be one in tonight's episode. You think about dusting off the one from your submission packet, but your submission piece was on the Trump campaign's Russia ties, the story of which has developed too far in the two weeks since you submitted the piece to salvage it.

You resign yourself to start one without any real hope of finishing before the pitch meeting starts. You decide to do an examination of Kellyanne Conway's code of ethics and rationale, and begin taking notes on her history in the public eye.

As the other writers meander in, they greet you happily, but quickly find seats and pull out their own computers. There is a more focused atmosphere this morning; evidently, preparation for desk pieces is more work than for segments like Midnight Confessions. You feel a real sense of camaraderie with the people around you, even if you're all competing to get your work on the air. There is a definite collaborative nature to the process; you see some of your peers pairing off to read each other's jokes. You resolve to be more prepared for the next time so that you can get valuable feedback from the people around you.

Paul arrives soon with Stephen right behind him, and the pitch meeting begins. You remain quiet, and, mercifully, Stephen seems to recognize that you don't have anything prepared. He does not call on you to suggest anything. Shame crawls over you as you fidget in your seat. You feel like you've let him down, and you hate the way that feels.

You try to spend the meeting productively by thinking of cold opens. Only one idea comes, but it's one you think you can work with. A television is rolled to the front of a church, in the style of school announcements, and on it is a PSA from God, who scolds evangelicals for still supporting Trump. You quietly type a few things he might say as pitches continue.

The desk portion of the meeting ends, and offers begin for cold opens. You raise your hand, and Stephen grins widely. He calls on you, and you give your premise. The concept itself does not get too many laughs, but once you read some of your jokes, people start to warm up to it. Stephen writes it down as a contender for tonight’s show. You sigh in relief, feeling redeemed. Other good cold opens are offered, and eventually a parody of _All the President’s Men_ is taken for tonight’s episode. You are disappointed, but you do not feel as rejected as yesterday. You know that your idea was good, even if it wasn’t chosen by everyone else.

The writers disperse. You meet Stephen’s eyes as you stand and pick up your bag, smiling meekly. He returns it with a nod, assuring you that you’ve done well.

You are on your way to the theater and your seat in the audience from yesterday when you remember that you actually have a desk awaiting you upstairs in the offices. You head in the direction of the stairs.

The office, a few floors up, could just as well be the home of a paper company as a late night talk show for all of its glamor. You are surprised by its mundane appearance, which contrasts completely with all of the magic that you associate with this job. There are cubicles with nameplates on them and wooden desks crammed inside. There is a carpeted floor, and there are bright fluorescent lights. But there is one wonderful thing that this office has that no other possibly could: Stephen Colbert coming in and out, pausing to talk to his staff and lighting up the room with his presence.

Evidently, this is where about half of the writers go to work on monologue jokes. Ten of your colleagues are scattered around the room, reading the news, typing furiously, or chatting with one another. You find your cubicle near the back of the room, your nameplate shiny and new.

Your desk is bare except for a small package and a note, presumably meant to be found yesterday. You start with the note, which reads in narrow, somewhat messy handwriting, “Excited to have you on board! Please don’t hesitate to come to me with any questions.” Stephen’s signature is at the bottom. You wonder at how a fairly generic note can make you blush so hard simply by virtue of its writer. You open the package to find a dark blue Late Show mug. Your euphoria increases. You know it’s available in the gift shop, and everyone else probably also has at least one, but it still feels special because it came from _him_.

You take a seat at your desk and begin research for today’s monologue. It's a little more comfortable to work here than to have everything on your lap in the theater. One downside, though, is the fact that it’s significantly less quiet in here with all of the friendly chatter. You pull a pair of earbuds out of your bag, plug them into your computer, and play some focusing music. You put an earbud into your right ear and get to work.

You are starting to get to some of your best material so far as your uninterrupted brainstorming continues. Suddenly, Stephen is right next to you, bent over to see what you’re reading. You jolt. “How’s everything going?” he asks.

“Good!” you reply. “I think I have some good stuff here.”

“Good to hear.” A pause. “What are you listening to?”

“Oh, just this band called Stars.” This worries you. Are you being rude? Is he trying to hint to you that you should stop? “We’re allowed to listen to music, right?” You cringe. You sound like a child asking permission to watch TV.

“Of course.” he says reassuringly. “Everyone’s process is different.” Another slight pause. “Do you have a favorite song by them?”

“Umm…” You blank. Why did he even ask you this? Is he actually interested in your music tastes? You’re sure you’re missing something in this conversation, but you can’t imagine what. After a struggle that feels eternal, you finally remember a song. “There’s one called ‘Your Ex-Lover is Dead’ that I really like.”

Stephen nods, apparently intrigued. “Very moody. I can get behind that, especially with so much great stuff in the news. I’ll have to check it out!” He straightens up and walks off, leaving you confounded. What just happened? You have no idea how to interpret whatever that was.

You do your best to shake it off and forget your complete lack of composure whenever Stephen is around you. You return to your jokes, and though you occasionally drift off pondering Stephen's interest, you manage some productivity. You return to the writers' room well-armed with plenty of jokes.

The monologue pitch meeting begins with everyone going around and saying the stories they're the most interested in. The writers go through each popular story and give joke ideas, which are then pared down and arranged into a cohesive narrative. This process is not as competitive as for desk pieces; there is room for everyone to add jokes. In fact, it's important that there are contributions from all the writers to have enough material for the monologue. Most jokes are modified to suit the monologue’s message, so this effort is always on the part of everyone.

You are pleased to see your favorite jokes make the cut. One of these involves an extended bit where Stephen asks God what will happen after the most recent rollbacks of protections for endangered species, to which God responds that he’s thinking about letting another species take over for awhile and see if they do any better than the humans. The bit ends with an “attack” from a stuffed platypus, something you are very much looking forward to seeing in rehearsal.

At lunch, you sit farther away from Stephen than you did yesterday. You don’t know how you came across in your last conversation, and you hope he’ll just forget it if you don’t talk to him for awhile. Luckily, there are plenty of kind faces in this room. You strike up a conversation with two other writers, Ariel and Aaron, and spend the break getting to know them. They seem energized to have a new face on the staff; both agree that a new voice helps them to reexamine their sense of humor.

Throughout this conversation, interesting though it is, you can’t help but steal a glance at Stephen every once in awhile. He is conversing boisterously with Paul at the other end of the long table, and though you can’t quite hear what they are talking about, their hearty laughter often fills the room.

Your heart lurches when you look over at Stephen again to see him just turning away, the ghost of a bemused frown on his face. You could swear he was just looking at you. And you haven’t seen much of that expression on his face before: one of slight uncertainty. Even when he’s failing at something, Stephen revels in the feeling and never lets it get to him. So what could have warranted that look? Is he thinking of your earlier conversation? You hope not. You return to your conversation, but your focus remains with him.

You are finally forced to stop your agonizing when lunch ends. Stephen goes to get ready for the show, and rewrites begin. Thankfully, there are again no surprises in the news, so the staff just goes through the monologue again and tweaks it.

Stephen returns to look over the latest version, today in a navy blue suit with a red tie. You are stunned once again to be in the same room as such a good-looking human being. You hope your awe isn’t too evident on your face; the last thing you need is for him to know how much you like him on top of how awkward you are.

You eagerly anticipate seeing your bit onstage. No matter how terribly awkward you feel around him, you doubt that there is anything that could tarnish the experience of seeing Stephen perform your work. Hearing him recite words you’ve written especially for him. Collapsing into fits of laughter at himself and at the joke he’s reading. Looking at you after your joke lands particularly well with an expression that thanks you profusely for being here, for sharing your talent with him.

Finally, he reaches the part of the monologue you’ve been awaiting. Brian reads the part of God from the balcony seats with a mic. Stephen’s eyes light up as the segment begins, and you are sure he peeks at you before starting. He is as excited to be doing this as you are to be seeing it.

A couple of minutes later, Stephen is reaching the end of the bit. “Lord! Wait! You didn’t tell us who the new leaders were! Lord— oh, no.”

As the stuffed platypus is tossed in his direction, he adopts a look of such over-the-top horror that the entire writing staff bursts into laughter. He overplays the attack, just as you knew he would, and you love it. So does everyone else. There is an angelic smile on his face now, one you know he must reserve for these people. You suppose he holds the approval his staff in even higher regard than he does his usual audience, since they are familiar enough with comedy not to be so easily amused. You are struck for what must be the millionth time in two days by how lucky you are to be here.

Back in the writers’ room, you and the staff are fine-tuning the script, adding jokes here and there. As a whole, the group is fairly satisfied with what they already have, so the pace leisurely and relaxed. Stephen darts in after talking with today’s audience, bringing his frantic energy with him. He pushes his glasses up his nose as he snatches a script and starts scanning. He nods, just like yesterday, and rushes out of the room again.

When some writers begin to drift upstairs to begin tomorrow’s show, you are tempted to join them. You want no doubt in anyone’s mind that you are pulling your weight. The staff seems extremely kind on the whole, but you are doing your best not to seem like a weak link nonetheless. Then again, Stephen’s monologue is going to be great. You decide to stay at least long enough to see that. Then you will head upstairs.

Stephen gives his usual introduction to cheers and applause from the audience. As he finishes his first joke, pausing just a little too long to savor the laughter, you begin to notice the symbiotic love between host and audience. Each needs the other for different reasons. The people in this theater need to be able to laugh at what is happening in the news, and they need someone witty, intelligent, and kindhearted to help them do that. Stephen, meanwhile, needs the audience. He brightens in a way for these people and these cameras that he simply does not with just his staff. That’s not to say that he is necessarily the most himself on that stage. There is just a bit too much polish to his act for it to be his most genuine self. But the look on his face after a well-executed joke shows you that he needs the laughter like he needs food. This is what he lives for. Even when it’s not always his favorite material (you think it likely that his relish for bashing the president has faded into boredom with the same jokes), his lifeblood lies in the blessing the audience gives him with their laughter.

Finally, he reaches your part of the monologue. You listen in delight to the audience’s response. Stephen and Brian play well together, and their many years of experience with each other show. They know exactly how to work the script to create the biggest laughs, and how to enjoy themselves immensely while they do so.

At the end, when the platypus attack begins, Stephen stages an unscripted fight sequence that takes him in and out of the camera’s frame. The audience cheers. By the end, his dark hair is thoroughly ruffled and his glasses all but slipping off his nose.

“I’d like to issue a personal apology to Hair and Makeup,” he says sheepishly. He adjusts his glasses and finishes off the monologue, which at which point you head upstairs.

The atmosphere in the office this time is much quieter. This seems to be a more individual writing period. Now here, you think, is an environment where you can get things done. You sit down at your desk, open your laptop, and take a look at various news sites to see if there is anything new or noteworthy enough to be used in tomorrow’s show. You write a couple of monologue jokes, but since you have no idea what might overshadow tonight’s news tomorrow, you try to stick with cold opens. You think of a few premises, the most promising being “Trump Musical Chairs,” in reference to the president’s ever-shrinking inner circle.

Soon, you hear Stephen making his rounds, thanking everyone for another good show. You begin to pack up.

“The platypus bit went really well!” he says happily as he strides up to you.

“I saw! I knew that guy was scrappy.”

He laughs, but seems to shake himself into a slightly more serious manner. “Listen, I hope I wasn’t too weird earlier. I just like to get to know the people I’m working with, and I really do like recommendations.”

“It’s not like you to apologize for that kind of thing,” you tease. “Isn’t awkwardness kind of your schtick?”

His smile is back. “It is, and you’re right. I just know it’s not everyone else’s thing, and that can be hard for the people I see every day if they don’t like it.”

“Don’t worry about it. I know what I signed up for.” Emboldened, you reach out your hand first for a handshake. “Thank you for a great show.”

His relief is visible as he strongly grasps your hand. “Thank you. I look forward to overanalyzing your musical taste.”

The two of you share a laugh at that, and you head downstairs to the exit.

You feel as if you could float into the train station. Surely he doesn’t do this for all new people, right? He might want to get to know them, but he wouldn’t be apologetic about being awkward. That’s his brand of humor. So at the very least he values your opinion of him above that of some of the others… or does he? Maybe not. You’re probably still just in shock that you work for him. Seeing Stephen every day is a lot of contact, and any amount of attention from him is more than you feel you deserve. You’re probably just overthinking.

Either way, he at least wants to hear your music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience! I hope you guys liked this! I promise it won't all be set at work, but I did advertise a slow build, so a slow build is what I'm doing. Thank you so much for taking the time to read my writing :)


	3. Montclair Coffee Co.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally here! I can't promise the next chapter anytime soon, but I won't make the gap as long as this last one.

“Could I get a grande Americano?”  
  
“Sure. Will that be all for you?”  
  
“Um…” You pause.  Do you really want to do this? Is this coming on too strong? Surely not. It’s just a cup of coffee. The sleepy-eyed barista waits patiently, his hand poised on another cup.  
  
“Yes,” you say finally, with the the air of someone confessing a crime, “I’ll have a grande Hazelnut latte.”  
  
You pay for your drinks and move down the line to wait for them. You tap your foot, half out of impatience and half of nervousness. You check your watch. Seven fifteen. If he’s not as consistent as you thought, this won’t work. You will look quite odd walking into the writers’ room with two cups of coffee.  
  
You collect your drinks and walk out of the Starbucks. The biting cold is accompanied by a chill wind, but you barely feel it. You are buoyed by the anticipation of seeing Stephen again. It’s your third day, and you are still unable to comprehend that you have this job. You expect to wake up any day now and have to go back to waiting tables and freelancing for that satirical website. But this seems to be your reality. You hope this starts to feel normal soon. You are starting to annoy even yourself with this constant wonder.  
  
You check your watch as you approach the theater. Seven twenty-five. You look up, and there he is. Perfectly punctual, he has rounded the far corner and is approaching you. He has a smile on his face and something small in each hand… Wait.  
  
You both recognize simultaneously that you are each holding two cups of coffee. Stephen’s smile widens even further at the silliness of this situation. You giggle.  
  
His hair seems a little less neat than it typically is even at this hour, standing up in odd places. You hope he did not rush out the door to get you a drink, though he looks no less attractive this way. You mentally slap yourself at this thought.  
  
“Great minds think alike,” he beams. He seems truly unruffled by this development.  
  
You nod. “We appear to be at an impasse.”  
  
“Well, my friend, that is where we disagree.” Stephen offers one of the cups to you. You see now that these drinks appear to be from a different, fancier shop. The white receptacle has a small purple otter printed on it above the words “Montclair Coffee Co” in a neat, curly font. “This Americano is far superior to any drink a Starbucks—“ he sticks his tongue out in mock disdain— “could ever hope to achieve.”  
  
“Those are some strong words! I don’t know that I can be so easily swayed; Starbucks has been good to me.” You transfer your drinks to your left arm so that you can accept the Stephen’s.  
  
“Trust me. After this, you’ll never want to go back.”  
  
You take a sip of the steaming hot drink. “WOW is this strong!”  
  
He is obviously pleased. “What did I say? Far superior. This was my morning coffee on the Report.”  
  
“I can see why.” The two of you begin to walk in the direction of the back door, you now carrying three cups of coffee.  
  
“Hey, by the way, I loved that song you told me about yesterday!” he says.  
  
“Really? It’s a pretty weird song.”  
  
“And everybody knows me as a typical, not-weird guy,” he teases. “Seriously. It was really good. I’d love it if you could recommend a few more songs by Stars for me. Maybe you could make me a playlist, if it isn't too much trouble?”  
  
“Sure! I’ll make one as soon as I can.” You try to restrain the glee in your voice. You can’t believe he actually liked it. You really thought it wouldn’t be his type of thing. But apparently it is, and you’re thrilled.  
  
He opens the door for you, as your hands are still full of drinks. “What are you going to do with those?” he asks, eyeing the two that, you must now admit, are of far lower quality than his selection.  
  
“What kind of coffee do Brian and Jen like?”  
  
“I don’t know. I’ve never bought coffee for them before.” He winks. Your mouth stops working properly.  
  
“I… I guess we’ll have to see then.” You set everything down to take off your jacket, acutely aware that Stephen is still watching you intently. You hang it up, pick up the drinks once more, and walk swiftly down the hall.  
  
“Hey guys,” you say nervously as you walk into the writers’ room, “do you want coffee?” Brian and Jen look up.  
  
Jen replies for the both of them with a chipper “Sure! Thanks!”  
  
“I bought an Americano for you, Jen, and a hazelnut latte for you, Brian.” Thinking fast, you add, “Stephen said he was pretty sure that was what you liked.” You’ll have to get him to play along if they mention it to him.  
  
Brian grins amicably. “A valiant effort.” He accepts his coffee, as does Jen, who notices that yours is different.  
  
“Did you go all the way to Montclair to get yourself something?”  
  
This was the part of your morning you were hoping to avoid. “I… I got this one from Stephen. We were talking about where to get good coffee yesterday, and he recommended this place.” You’re not sure why you’re so hesitant to tell them about this. It does, upon reflection, seem like a very generous thing to be doing on his third day of acquaintance with you. It seems best not to be flaunting that your boss bought you coffee.  
  
You can see that you were right. Jen and Brian are exchanging intrigued looks. Thankfully, they don’t say anything further about it. You sit down and settle in for another morning of joke pitches.  
  
You can already tell that tonight’s episode is going to be a good one. Today there are enough guests that all the writers need to worry about is the cold open and the monologue. And the _New York Times_ homepage instantly tells you that you are not short of material; in the early hours this morning, it seems that President Trump has gone on a Twitter tirade against Kristen Stewart for a recent interview in which she brought up her relationship with Robert Pattinson. The kicker, though, is that instead of naming Stewart in his rant, he mistakenly rages against Kristen Chenoweth. This is the kind of harmless idiocy that you know will be endlessly fun to write about. As you scroll through the _Times_ article, you are struck by an idea. You pull up a blank document on your laptop and begin to type.  
  
By the time everyone has come in and settled into seats around the long table, you are feeling excited about your idea. When Stephen finally walks in to begin the meeting, you raise your hand confidently. He calls on you first with a smile.  
  
“Cartoon Donald Trump is at an award show, and he announces the nominees for ‘Most Twitter harassment garnered from US Presidents.’ He gives the wrong names like he did for Kristen Stewart.”  
  
“Like John Travolta with ‘Adele Nazeem?’ I like it!” Stephen seems equally enthusiastic about this idea. Judging from the writers’ appreciative mumbling, they agree. You think that this might be your morning.  
  
You’re right. Several other ideas are proposed, many in the same vein of mispronouncing names, but yours is the most fully-formed. The group decides that your cold open will be used tonight.  
  
You take a moment to process this. This is happening. Your idea is being used. But you know it’s not just your baby anymore. The other writers, especially those who proposed similar concepts, now get to have their input on whose names should be used and how they should be changed. Still, you are the one responsible for actually writing the script, now that the meeting is adjourned for monologue research. You head up to the office, having taken notes on the ideas of your peers, sit at your desk, and begin to write a proper script.  
  
It takes time, but you are enjoying trying to piece together a good one-minute sketch that brings the best ideas of the other writers to your concept. You quite like Jen’s addition of a cartoon John Travolta to reiterate “Adele Nazeem,” but you are unsure how to best implement it.  
  
You notice Ariel nearby, and get up to talk to her.  
  
“Hey! I really liked your cold open proposal!” she says as you approach.  
  
“Thanks,” you reply, pleased. “I was actually wondering if you’d be willing to give it a look? I need a fresh pair of eyes on it.”  
  
“Of course!”  
  
You lead her over to your cubicle, where she scans what you have so far. “This is really good! I really like when he says Amy Schumer instead of Chuck. It looks like all you really need is a strong button.”  
  
“Yeah. I’ve been trying to figure out how to use Jen’s John Travolta idea, but I’m not sure how it fits in.”  
  
“If you can’t make it work naturally, you might just have to scrap it. It can’t feel forced.” Ariel frowns for a moment, thinking. “What if you have Trump go after ‘a no talent guy like Carrell’ instead of ‘Colbert?’”  
  
You laugh, thinking back to the joy on Stephen’s face the night he talked about Trump finally saying his name. “That’s genius! And it brings it back to the show, too!”  
  
She straightens up, smiling. “I think you can take it from here. It looks great!”  
  
Your confidence boosted, you type out the last joke and put the finishing touches on the draft. You decide that you should probably show it to Brian, who voices Cartoon Donald Trump. You look around the office, and can’t seem to find him. He must still be downstairs in the writers’ room. You grab your laptop and head for the stairs.  
  
As you approach the writers’ room, you can hear a pair of voices from inside. You stop just short of the doorway. One of the two sounds like Brian, and the other must be Stephen himself. You would know his voice anywhere from all of the time you’ve spent listening to it. They sound like they’re engrossed in conversation, so you hold off on entering the room.  
  
“By the way, why have I never gotten the Montclair Coffee Co. treatment?” you hear Brian ask teasingly. You stiffen, listening harder.  
  
Stephen replies jokingly, “Maybe if you were single, Brian.” His voice is growing nearer, so you start into the room to prevent him from catching you lurking.  
  
“Hi Brian. Oh, hey, Stephen!” You try to act like you haven’t heard any of what they’ve just said. Though nothing either has just said was particularly incriminating, Stephen’s red face seems to imply otherwise. “Brian, I was wondering if you’d want to read over my cold open since it’s mostly you talking?”  
  
“Sure,” he says, with what you could swear is the briefest smirk in Stephen’s direction.  
  
“I’ll read it too,” says Stephen with a bit too much enthusiasm, clearly aiming for a distraction. You set your laptop down on the table and open it up again to the script you’ve written.  
  
As they read, you attempt to process what you heard in the hall. Maybe it was just something about Stephen’s and Brian’s relationship specifically, and you shouldn’t take anything away from that. But maybe this is Stephen trying to flirt with you, as you hoped. You’re a little embarrassed to have been the indirect subject of conversation, but you’re glad to have learned how Stephen might perceive these morning run-ins.  
  
Stephen and Brian both offer slight alterations to the script, but generally agree with Ariel’s assessment of its quality. You feel the release of a tension you didn’t even realize was there. Stephen and Brian have given approval to your work. Wow. You thank them, and return to the office to email the script to the people who need it.  
  
The monologue meeting goes by in a blur. You barely contribute anything, but luckily you have the excuse of writing the cold open. If anyone else knew with how much scrutiny you are analyzing and re-analyzing every single interaction you have had with Stephen, it would make being in this room quite awkward. He doesn’t seem the type for love at first sight… does he? Surely three days is not long enough for someone like him to develop feelings for anyone, especially someone as inelegant and bland as you. And yet if he has not been flirting with you at least a little, then you have no idea how to interpret some of the things he’s said to you.  
  
The pitch meeting ends, snapping you out of your contemplation. You follow the writers into the audience seats for rehearsal.  
  
You are again reminded of the privilege you have of working here. Stephen’s laughter is one of the most angelic sounds you’ve heard. It is something special to see him mess up one of his lines and break down in giggles. He always looks up at the writers sitting before him, an enormous grin on his face that expresses a certain kind if generosity. You feel him sharing every part of him in these moments, and the pure joy of his most honest form is beautiful. But then again, everything about him is.  
  
You definitely have a problem.  
  
An hour later, you have taken up your typical post in the writers’ room, waiting for the taping to start so you can watch your material fully realized. The actual tapings feel less intimate than when it’s just him talking to the producers and writers in rehearsals, but the sound of his voice is enough for you.  
  
Suddenly, the writers who usually spend tapings upstairs, led by Jen, file into the room, looks of amusement on their face.  
  
“Sorry to interrupt the Stephen lovefest,” says Jen with a shrewd smile (was it aimed in your direction? _Now doesn’t seem like the best time for that question_ , you think.), “but word just leaked that our president has discussed going to war with Wakanda to his advisors.”  
  
You and the other writers bursts into laughter, which subsides quickly when everyone realizes that she is absolutely serious. “It isn’t an absolutely crucial story to get in tonight, but it would be great if we could squeeze a minute of material out of it to tack onto the monologue later,” she says.  
  
Everyone quickly gets to pitching jokes. You are impressed by yours and your peers’ ability to make jokes even out of something that is basically a joke in itself. Working together, you manage to put together a decent addendum to the monologue. Stephen rushes in soon after. As you are closest to the door, he goes to your laptop and reads the script over your shoulder. You can hear his quick, quiet breathing with his face so close to yours. You do your best to suppress the gleeful grin that will expose your feelings to your fellow writers.  
  
“Well done, guys,” he says, straightening up. He turns and heads right back out to perform the fresh material, which Jen has just sent to the teleprompters. Everyone turns to the monitor to watch this.  
  
He does a lot more stumbling in this part, having had no rehearsal time, but he makes it enjoyable and eventually does it well enough to call it a night. Courteous as ever, he thanks tonight’s audience for staying a little longer than normal to tape this. With that, the night is over, and the writers begin to pack up to leave.  
  
You purposely take your time getting everything together, hoping to get another chance to be alone with Stephen. You’re unsure what you’ll say, but you know you want him to look at you again with those affectionate brown eyes. As usual, he comes into the room to thank everyone for their hard work, and as usual they leave almost as soon as he is done speaking. It does not take long before you are the last two in the room again.  
  
You meet his eyes, and still you don’t know what to say. His piercing gaze does not help you to find your words. “Uh… great job tonight! You took to that new stuff really quickly.”  
  
He smiles. “Thanks! Couldn’t have done it without you and everyone else I was just holding captive with my gratitude.”  
  
There is a brief, uncertain pause. You continue to stare into each other’s eyes intently.  
  
“Well… I guess I’ll see you at our next coffee date!” you say, immediately regretting your choice of words. An inscrutable look flashes across his face before he grins again.  
  
“Can’t wait!” he says genuinely.  
  
You shuffle out of the room quickly. You don’t look back as you make for the exit. One day, you promise yourself, you will have a normal conversation with that man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you get impatient waiting for the next chapter of this, I plan on publishing a series of Stephen x Reader ficlets that I occasionally write with friends.


	4. Groundhog Day

You barely even need the alarm anymore. Even on this dreary Tuesday morning, you awake just in time to preempt the clock on your nightstand. It’s become far easier than you ever expected to be up so early each day. There’s just something about the way this job energizes you that makes you want to do everything you can to be your best. Sure, just the job, you think as you roll out of bed and get dressed.  
  
You know that it’s more than the job. Of course you do. But you’re making a conscious effort not to get your hopes up in that department. You’ve been writing at the Late Show for three weeks now, and your relationship with Stephen has not progressed further than his continuing to buy you coffee. You suppose that this is not insignificant; after all, none of the rest of the staff seems to have experienced the same generosity. After his fifth day straight of handing you a cup of coffee with a charming grin, you reluctantly asked him to stop. “I don’t want you spending so much money on me,” you explained when he looked at you quizzically.   
  
“I’m not exactly strapped for cash,” he argued, “and I want to give you a little something to look forward to. I know it’s hard to be new.”  
  
“I have plenty to look forward to already,” you said, realizing how suggestively that might be taken as the words left your lips. You hoped he didn’t think too much about that. But he smiled understandingly, and agreed to stop.  
  
Getting on the train now, you wonder if that made him think you weren’t interested. Are you responsible for the lack of progress? You fervently hope not. Too many times in the past three weeks have you thought about telling him your feelings. Every time you think better of it, of course. After all, it’s been _three weeks_. You can’t possibly know each other well enough for you to sound sane telling him you want to be with him.  
  
Of course, you feel like you’ve known Stephen longer than three weeks. After all, you’ve watched his work for years now, and you’ve always had an infatuation with him. You thought working alongside him might lessen that. After all, there’s no way he could be like that in real life. But you were wrong. In person, Stephen is every bit as funny, charismatic, and kind as he is on TV. He is incredibly thoughtful, and does his best to make everyone around him happy before he even thinks of himself. Somehow, your feelings for him have grown stronger and more like love since meeting him. It’s weird to think the word “love” in relation to him. You’ve always tried to use the word sparingly to give it meaning, but you can’t deny it seems to ring true with him. But that feels too intense this early on. _Let’s just stick with “like” for now_ , you think to yourself.   
  
How Stephen feels is a different story. Unless he’s been attending stand-up shows at seedy dive bars in secret, he really has only known who you are for three weeks. There’s no way his feelings are where yours are. But are you deluded in thinking that the two of you have had an immediate chemistry that he doesn’t have with everyone? He certainly likes you enough to want to have a conversation every morning. Sometimes, you’ve arrived slightly later than usual, but he was miraculously just arriving. It seemed that way, anyway. He could have been waiting.

Essentially, you know he likes you, but whether he _likes_ you remains to be seen. You don’t trust what you heard him say to Brian in that first week, or that several other writers have noticed the difference in how he acts around you compared to how he is with most other people. These can be easily misconstrued, and the only viable way you see to learn his true feelings is for him to simply tell you. But that’s never going to happen.  
  
Coming out of the subway now and approaching the Ed Sullivan Theater, you see a fairly empty street. The usual overeager tourists and harassed New Yorkers on their way to work, of course, but not as many as usual. It is a crisp morning; February has just arrived, and the temperatures show no sign of pulling up from their winter plunge. No doubt, many pedestrians are opting for the warmth of a taxi over the chill morning air.   
  
You stop under the marquee. Stephen is not there yet. _Well this is a first_ , you think. What should you do? Wait for him? Would that be weird? You suspect he waits for you when you’re late, but it’s just a suspicion. You don’t want to come off as creepy or clingy.  
  
Before you can make up your mind on what to do, you see him. He appears around the corner he always does, power walking at a speed that verges on jogging. Once he sees you, he immediately slows down. He attempts to fix his tousled hair as he approaches, grinning sheepishly.  
  
“Where’s the fire?” you ask with a smirk. You can tell that you’ve definitely grown more confident around him since you’ve gotten to know each other. You still have those moments of self-doubt and over-analysis of a situation, but thankfully you have grown to trust that Stephen has at least a modicum of affection for you, even if it is platonic.  
  
He blushes as the two of you begin your usual stroll towards the back door. “Hope you weren’t waiting too long. I was up a little later than usual last night making a couple calls, so I overslept a bit.”  
  
You are immediately intrigued. “What kind of calls?”  
  
“Oh, just stuff about the show with the CBS execs,” he says shiftily.  
  
You do not really buy this excuse, but clearly he doesn’t want to talk about it. You don’t want to push him. Not yet, anyway. You root around in your mind for a new subject. “Happy Groundhog Day, by the way!”  
  
His eyes widen in mock horror. “That’s TODAY?! I haven’t bought any gifts!”  
  
Chuckling, you say, “Well, as your favorite employee, I absolve you of your transgression.   
  
“And here I thought only my priest could do that.”  
  
You both laugh. It feels good to do that with him. Stephen is so easy to be around. You have rarely felt such complete comfort around a person as you do him. Even in silence, as the two of you are experiencing now, there is no pressure to talk. You soak up the pleasure of each second with him without difficulty. You wonder if he has a similar feeling. He doesn’t seem particularly uncomfortable around you, but that might just be his charismatic personality. Maybe everyone has the same perception of him that you have. You probably aren’t special.  
  
But maybe you shouldn’t stop yourself from feeling that way anyway.  
  
You both go inside and take off your coats, and he sits down in his usual spot and takes out a copy of Toni Morrison’s _The Bluest Eye_ while you make your way down the hall to the writers’ room.  
  
You definitely feel like you belong in this room now. You’ve finally gotten into the rhythm of the work week, and you watch yourself, bit by bit, becoming the best version of yourself as a comedian and writer. You would love this job even if there wasn’t the added bonus of Stephen.  
  
Jen and Brian barely even look up as you walk in anymore. Your early arrival has become so normal that they give you a smile and then let you sit down and get to work.  
  
Trying to think of monologue pitch ideas, you scroll through the _New York Times_ homepage, looking for inspiration. What you find instead is fairly uninspiring: an article about the most recent Trump scandal, the president’s hiring of Barron to be his secretary. It is yet another think piece about how this spells the end of the Trump administration. You sigh. You have read so many of these, and they have never been true. Why do news outlets keep saying things like this when they are continuously proven wrong?  
  
But then a thought occurs to you. Your conversations with Stephen, while fun, can sometimes also provide you with good ideas to use on the show. Something that you talked about this morning has given you a great idea. You open your laptop and start typing furiously.  
  
People begin to filter in, but you are so busy writing down ideas that you barely notice. By the time you look up, satisfied with what you have completed, the room is half full. You stop writing for a bit and socialize. It took awhile for you to work up the courage to talk to a lot of these people, but now you are proud to call them friends and peers.  
  
When the cold open pitches begin, you are fairly quiet. You are excited for everybody to hear your idea when it’s time for the monologue, but you didn’t prepare much for this part. However, once people start making their own pitches, you do find it fun to suggest ways to build on them (in a friendly way, of course). You find that you are good at strengthening the ideas of others, and they seem appreciative of your input.  
  
You spend most of that time, however, daydreaming about Stephen. He does enjoy spending time with you. And he _is_ a bachelor. Could you ask him to hang out in a platonic way? You almost snort at the idea of asking Stephen Colbert to “hang out.” But couldn’t you? Maybe if you ever got up the courage to do so, but you doubt that that will ever happen.  
  
Before you know it, the cold open meeting is over. Writers wander out of the room to do monologue research. You debate whether to work in the office or in the theater. You settle on the theater; it is more peaceful there, and it’s sometimes nice to have a little break from the general hustle of this work.  
  
You set up your workspace in the balcony again. You write a few jokes based on some articles from the _Washington Post_ , but spend most of your time expanding on the idea you had this morning. You really hope Stephen likes it.  
  
You also like working up here because there is always something going on onstage that you can watch if you drift off. Occasionally, you see interns scurrying around the set between camera operators and producers, making themselves as small and inoffensive as possible. It reminds you of when you were in college, when your dream was to be an intern for _The Colbert Report_. It always amuses you, looking back, that that was where your aspirations stopped. You didn’t believe there was any other way to meet Stephen, or even get close to meeting him. It took a lot of growth to gain the self-confidence that allowed you to have better goals for yourself and to pursue them with conviction. Seeing the interns down there who are still discovering themselves and their ambitions makes you optimistic for their success.  
  
Soon enough, it is time to head back down to the writers’ room. You begin to feel some trepidation. You know that everybody likes you and your work, but it never gets easier to present your ideas. That vulnerability of offering yourself up to rejection is definitely the hardest part of this job.  
  
You let some of the smaller joke offers go by before making your pitch. Stephen even pitches some of his own jokes to Opus, who leads the monologue meetings. After about five minutes, when you sense a lull, you finally raise your hand.   
  
“Okay, bear with me here, because this is a long one,” you say sheepishly. “It’s Groundhog Day today, and Stephen wants to talk to Punxsutawney Phil, but instead reaches his brother, Trumpsabadguy Tad. His Groundhog day is every month, when the writers for _The New York Times_ watch him to see how much longer the Trump administration will last. He never sees his shadow, so they always report that impeachment is near.”  
  
Almost everyone is nodding encouragingly or smiling. You take that as a good sign. You glance at Stephen, who is beaming at you. You smile back.  
  
“That sounds promising! Do you have a sample you could read for us?” Opus asks.  
  
“Yup! It’s almost finished, actually.” You look shyly across the table at Stephen. “Do you want to read it with me?” You pray you are sounding professional right now.  
  
He smiles genuinely. “Sure!” He stands and comes around to your side of the table, leaning over your shoulder to read the script. You suppress a shiver of excitement and nervousness at his proximity. “Punxsutawney Phil, is that you?”  
  
You assume a voice that is higher than your own, but very rough. “Nah, he’s out partying.”  
  
The room bursts into laughter. “You sound like an adolescent chain smoker!” Stephen exclaims gleefully.  
  
“You flatter me,” you reply in the voice, causing a second bout of chortles.   
  
The two of you finish the reading. Opus says, “I love it!” The rest of the writers agree, making you blush. “How quickly can you finish it?”  
  
“I think I only need a few more lines. All I really need is five more minutes.”  
  
“Great! If you could finish that before lunch, it would be great to see it in rehearsal.”  
  
You nod. The meeting is about to end when you realize something. “Wait!” Everyone looks at you quizzically. “Who do I need to send the script to for Tad?”  
  
A pause. Then Opus says, “I think we all just assumed you would do it.”  
  
Your stomach drops. “Really?”  
  
“I don’t think anyone could do that voice as well as you,” Stephen says warmly.  
  
“Wow. Okay!” While the pitch meeting adjourns, you turn back to your screen to put the finishing touches on your script, feeling the flush creep across your face. Are you really going to be on TV tonight? And doing a bit with Stephen? This is incredible.  
  
Once you are finished, you join everyone in eating lunch, pizzas that Stephen has ordered. It is apparently a tradition every Tuesday for Stephen to buy pizza for his staff if _The Late Show_ was the top-rated late night show of the previous week.

  
“We have not had a pizza-free Tuesday in a loooooong time,” Ariel told you smugly on your second week working here. “The only reason there wasn’t any last week was because we were doing reruns the week before. Hope you like Angelo’s, because it’s what’s for lunch!”  
  
“But it’s not guaranteed,” Stephen said, overhearing the two of you talking, “which is part of why I do this. We should always remind ourselves be thankful that people appreciate our hard work, and that we should continue to strive for our best.”  
  
You like that Stephen takes nothing for granted. He is clearly aware of how good his life is, and wants to ensure that everyone who makes it that way knows that he sees it. His humility and kindness are a large part of why he is universally beloved by everyone he has worked with. What you saw on TV all of those nights that you watched him before getting this job were not a facade; he really is exactly the person he presents himself to be.  
  
The writers begin to convene again to clean the monologue. You are about to sit down again for the rewrite meeting, but Ariel shoos you out of the room. “You have to go to the props department for your groundhog outfit!”  
  
You hadn’t considered this. You really are about to make your TV debut dressed as a groundhog. It makes you giddy with excitement. You find your way to the props room, which is on the same floor. You pass Stephen’s dressing room on the way there, and it takes all your strength not to look in and see what he’s doing. _Play it cool_ , you tell yourself.  
  
The people in the props department are very nice. Somehow, they have managed to locate a onesie that resembles a groundhog. You wonder how they could have done such a thing on short notice. This place truly is magical.  
  
By this time, rewrites are likely almost over, so you put on the costume and head to the theater to meet everyone else for rehearsal. You know you must look ridiculous, but you love it.  
  
You arrive in the audience of the theater, and everyone is just sitting down. You join the end of the row so that you can get up onstage when your part is up. Stephen then arrives onstage, and you watch him practice with a mixture of anticipation and nervousness. How are you going to measure up to such a stage presence? You know that they laughed when the two of you first read it, but will you be able to keep up with his onstage charisma? There's only one way to find out, you suppose.  
  
When your time finally comes, you stride up to the stage, grinning as you hear the snickers of the other writers. Stephen also seems to be enjoying the costume. “You look adorable,” he says to you quietly, making you blush. You wish he hadn’t said that just now; overanalyzing it is not going to be good for your performance. Judging by the bashful look on his face, he wishes the same thing.  
  
You go to your position in front of the backdrop image of a grassy hill. Today is one of those days where there is so much monologue material that a commercial break occurs in the middle of it. Your part takes place after the break, with Stephen sitting at his desk and you standing where he does most of his monologue. You find your mark on the floor and turn to face the camera.  
  
Immediately you feel yourself grow calmer. This is how it has always been for you as an actor and a comedian; the anticipation is the worst part of a performance because you spend all your time thinking about what might go wrong. Once you are onstage, you feel much more collected and in control, and this stage is no different. You grow excited to begin the rehearsal, and you try out some faces in the camera. You settle on a tired, somewhat harassed look. it elicits a laugh, and you are elated. This is going to go fine.  
  
You have always known that Stephen was a talented improviser, but it has never been more apparent than now, when you are doing a scene with him. You know from experience that the best improvisers are those who are unselfish, who work to make their scene partners look good rather than themselves. Improv is a cooperative form that works best when the participants raise each other up. Even though this is a scripted scene, Stephen is able to use that skill easily. He has an energy about him that he is very good at transferring where he wants it. You know that this segment is about your character, but you do your best to reciprocate his generosity anyway; you are not trying to steal the spotlight. It is amazing to work with Stephen; his ability to set you up for success makes getting laughs out of the writers easy. Everyone applauds when you finish. You go back to your seat, smiling from ear to ear. You can’t wait to do this with an audience who hasn’t heard it before.  
  
Instead of going in for final rewrites, you are directed backstage to have your groundhog makeup put on. The woman who is in charge of you, Alice, apparently spends a lot of time doing Stephen’s face as well. The two of you bond over how much you admire his talent and his genuine goodness.  
  
“He’s brought you up a lot, too,” she says, and your heart lurches. “He says that you’re very funny, and that he can’t believe this is your first writing job.”  
  
You are taken by surprise. He talks about you? Unprompted? You are overjoyed, not just by the fact that someone you have such feelings for thinks so highly of you, but that such a highly-esteemed comedian thinks so highly of you.   
  
She continues, “And I can see why! You wrote and are performing in a segment after only three weeks? Some of these writers never perform, so you must be seriously talented.”  
  
“Thanks,” you reply, embarrassed to be receiving all this praise. Then, glancing in the mirror: “You’re pretty great at your job as well, it seems!” Your face has transformed into that of a rodent. This must be a completely different style of makeup from what Alice usually does, but she has executed it flawlessly.  
  
“Glad it looks okay. Now get out there and make ‘em laugh!”  
  
Just then, you hear Jon Batiste and Stay Human begin to play onstage, and the audience cheers loudly. It’s almost time for the show to start, and this time you get to watch it unfold from feet away. Soon, Stephen arrives for a touch-up on his makeup. He sees you and smiles fondly. “You don’t need it, but break a leg! You’re going to kill it out there!”  
  
You return a weak grin, but the nerves are back. What if you choke? What if the whole thing isn’t funny at all? What if you get booed offstage? Okay, that probably won’t happen, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t worried about it.   
  
Stephen strides confidently onstage to greet his audience. You take a seat back in the makeup chair, heart pounding. You listen to him answering audience questions, and allow yourself to be soothed by the voice that always comforted you after long days at jobs you hated with people who didn’t care about you. _You’re here now_ , you remind yourself, _There’s nothing to worry about. He believes in you_.   
  
Before long, he has begun the monologue. As always, he is executing the jokes masterfully, working perfectly with the band and the energy the audience provides to create impeccable moments of comedy. You feel the nerves bubbling up again, but you try to numb them with Stephen’s voice.  
  
He finishes with the first half, and there is a break for commercials. You see your backdrop being brought out, and you are ushered onstage to your mark. You hear some audience members giggling, and you decide to give them a big, goofy wave. They cheer in response. Before you have time to truly realize what you’re about to do, Stephen, now at his desk, brings the show back.  
  
“Now, folks, as some of you may know, it is Groundhog Day,” he says.  
  
The anticipation is back. You don’t look at him, instead staring at the camera that faces you.  
  
“And we realized that we celebrate this day, every year, but we never get to talk to the celebrity of the day, Punxsutawney Phil.”  
  
You swallow and assume your silly face. Any second now…  
  
“So we decided to call him up. Let’s say hello to him, everybody!”  
  
A cheer from the crowd and a signal from the camera operator that you’re on. Stephen pauses for the perfect amount of time, then: “Punxsutawney Phil, is that you?”  
  
“Nah, he’s out partying.” The audience laughs appreciatively at your voice.  
  
“Then who are you?”  
  
“I’m his brother, Trumpsabadguy Tad.” An even bigger laugh. This is going well.  
  
The rest of the segment goes by in a blur after the initial release of the first laugh. This is all you’ve ever wanted to do you whole life: to perform, to make people laugh on a large scale. And maybe you’re doing it dressed like a groundhog, but you’re doing it the way you like it and with a man you are increasingly sure you have more than a simple crush on.   
  
The segment ends, and as soon as your camera goes off, you walk offstage. Your ears are ringing, and you can barely hear the band beginning to play or everyone around you congratulating you on a job well done.   
  
But you have no trouble hearing one voice behind you: “Hey! Great job!”  
  
Stephen approaches you as you turn around and gives you a brief hug. You are paralyzed. It was the shortest, most noncommittal hug, but it was enough to make you go weak. He smells amazing, like… what? The closest you can get to describing it is a combination of fruit and firewood.   
  
“Um… thanks!” you manage to stutter out.  
  
“I have to get back out there, but I hope we get to perform together again sometime! You’re a great scene partner.” He holds eye contact with you for another moment. You want the whole world to stop so that you can look into his beautiful brown eyes forever. But, with apparent reluctance, he turns away and returns to his desk.  
  
Fatigue suddenly hits you now that he is gone. This has been an exhilarating day, and you look forward to sitting in the writers’ room to watch the rest of the taping without having to worry about anything else.  
  
You are met with more applause as you enter the room. It looks like everyone has stayed downstairs to watch your television debut. You love how supportive everyone here is. After receiving everybody’s congratulations, you take a seat with a sigh of contentedness.  
  
The rest of the taping plays on the monitor, but you barely notice. You are too busy replaying over and over everything about today that was simply perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your continued readership through my sporadic posting! I hope you continue to enjoy this work!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! It's my first fic, so feedback is welcome! More chapters to come.


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